Tennison. Lynda La plante

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      *

      Having finished her meal Jane started to hurry down the stairs: Harris wanted her back on the duty desk, probably so he could return to the snooker room. But, hearing raised voices, she stopped on the first floor by DCI Bradfield’s office. She moved a bit closer to his door to listen and could hear a person she presumed to be Eddie Phillips sobbing profusely.

      ‘Don’t bloody lie to me, son,’ Bradfield shouted.

      ‘I swear on my life I’m not lying,’ came the response.

      ‘You bloody well are – we both know you strangled her to death.’

      ‘No . . . No, I would never hurt Julie Ann, I loved her.’

      ‘That’s it, that’s why you killed her, because you loved her.’

      Eddie was snivelling. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

      ‘You found out she was getting shagged for money and drugs and you didn’t like it. You had a fit of jealous rage and squeezed the life out of her.’

      In floods of tears Eddie still protested his innocence. Then there was the sound of a hand banging repeatedly on a desk, followed by the gravelly toned voice of DS Spencer Gibbs.

      ‘Stop lying! It’ll be a lot easier for you if you tell us the truth.’

      ‘I am, I am! The last time I saw her she was getting into a red car . . . a Jaguar, I think, and it looked newish. I was high on heroin so it’s hard to remember.’

      ‘When was this?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘When did you see Julie Ann getting into a fucking red

      Jaguar, Eddie?’ Gibbs asked.

      ‘The last time I saw her.’

      ‘When was that, Eddie?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      Bradfield’s calmer voice took over.

      ‘Come on now, son, you are saying that the last time you saw Julie Ann she was getting into a red Jaguar.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s right. I’ve not seen her since then, I

      swear before God.’

      ‘So when exactly was it?’

      ‘I dunno, maybe a week or so ago. I don’t remember exactly.’

      ‘Keep lying and you’ll find a slap round the head might help you remember,’ Gibbs said.

      Jane hurried back to the front office. Harris was his usual miserable self, accusing her of taking her time on her refreshment break, when she’d actually only had half an hour. He said that he would be in the sergeants’ room writing up some reports. It irritated her that he was so lazy, but she was pleased that he would be out of her hair for a while.

      *

      Another hour passed and Jane only had a couple of incidents to deal with. Then she saw DCI Bradfield and DS Gibbs taking Eddie Phillips into the custody area. He was thin and scrawny and it was clear his heroin addiction had taken a toll on his body. He looked much older than nineteen. His face was covered in red scars and his shoulder-length black hair was dirty and matted.

      A few minutes later Bradfield came out of the charge room and strode towards her. Jane started to stand to attention and winced as she felt her tights catch on the rough wooden handle of the desk drawer.

      ‘You ever been on a bereavement visit?’ She swallowed and coughed.

      ‘Pardon, sir?’

      ‘Obviously not. My lads have their work cut out here, so get your skates on – you’re coming with me to see the dead girl’s family. The address is 48 Church Mount, Hampstead Garden Suburb. You know how to read an A–Z street map, I take it?’

      She didn’t dare tell him that she had only recently passed her driving test, and had only used an A–Z to find her way on her beats in Hackney. She used public transport to get around London itself, as it was free for police officers.

      ‘I need to tell Sergeant Harris, sir. He said I had to cover the front office until end of duty.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him. Now get a move on, WPC . . .?’

      ‘Tennison, sir, Jane Tennison.’

      Bradfield left and Jane went into the comms room. She checked her tights, only to find that the snag had turned into a ladder.

      ‘Oh my God! I don’t believe it, this is the second pair in a week. Those ruddy desks need sandpapering. Look – I’ve got a ladder on the knee now!’

      Kath smiled. ‘Like I said, Jane, it always happens to you, don’t it?’

      Pulling her skirt down in the hope the ladder wouldn’t show, Jane booked out a personal radio and asked Kath for directions, which she quickly jotted down in her notebook. She hurried to the ladies’ locker room, grabbed her uniform jacket and hat and went upstairs to Bradfield’s office, only to be told by DS Gibbs that he was waiting for her in the rear yard.

      ‘Get a move on, he’s waiting.’

      She was heading across the yard when she heard Bradfield’s voice and saw him standing by the snooker room, holding the door open and remonstrating with Sergeant Harris.

      ‘Covering the duty desk and front counter is your problem, Harris, not mine. As the DCI and your superior officer, I decide who I take with me, not you.’

      He slammed the door shut and as Jane walked past she saw Harris glare at her through the window. Bradfield was wearing a long black raincoat with the collar turned up. She could see that he had shaved and changed his shirt to meet the victim’s parents. The sooner they had the dead girl formally identified the faster they could move on to issuing press releases and appealing to the public for information.

      Bradfield got into the driving seat of an unmarked red Hillman Hunter CID car. As Jane got into the passenger seat he threw an A–Z street map onto her lap, which she thought was rather rude of him.

      ‘Christ, I hate death notices, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I guarantee it won’t be pleasant, never is. When we get there, you stay quiet, but if the mother has a melt-down take her to the kitchen, or wherever, so I can chat to the father in private. Right, which way?’ he snapped as he started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay. He was such a big man his shoulder almost touched hers when he changed gear and drove out of the yard at speed.

      Jane had her notebook open beside the A–Z. ‘Dalston Lane, Balls Pond Road, Holloway Road, Archway Road and er . . . it’s off Aylmer Road.’

      ‘Good knowledge. You must be a London girl.’

      ‘Maida Vale, sir.’

      ‘Posh place,’ he remarked.

      *

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